


Timing is Everything

by wig_powder



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Common Cold, Gen, Sneezing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-24 01:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20899775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wig_powder/pseuds/wig_powder
Summary: A slight re-imagining of the events of "The Duel/The Even Chance", starting after the sinking of the Marie Galant and the rescue of Hornblower and his men. Specifically, what would have happened if Hornblower had picked up a cold during the process...?





	Timing is Everything

Horatio had suspected something like this was coming. After having to dive repeatedly into ice-cold Atlantic water, after being out in the open air with no shelter and little warmth for over a week, and after being constantly tense and worried for the fate of his first (and probably last) command, it was inevitable that he would come down with something. Up until his rescue by the _Indefatigable_, however, he had been able to ignore the symptoms. His shivering, he’d reasoned, was due to the harsh North Wind, while the tightness in his throat was indicative of thirst, not soreness. Now, safely on board the _Indy_, warm and dry, he couldn’t deny it to himself any longer; he was ill.

As far as he could tell (there were advantages to being a doctor’s son), it was just a mild cold. Even better, the worst of it was clearly over. He looked and felt relatively healthy, and he was sure no one would notice that he was a little unwell.

That is, if they didn’t notice that his voice had dropped two pitches. Congestion had always been his least favorite part of being sick, and the fact that Simpson was now on board and just looking for an excuse to torment him made it ten times worse. Groaning to himself, he rubbed his nose with a handkerchief and decided to speak as little as possible. Of course, that also meant he had to keep himself from sneezing as well. And based on the itch that seemed to have taken up residence somewhere in the back of his nose, that was a task easier said than done. Still, he had yet to sneeze, and if he kept himself focused, maybe he could get away with the ruse.

***

That night, half the ship assembled on deck for the midnight raid on the _Papillon_. It was bitterly cold out, which Horatio silently said a prayer of thanks for; no one would think twice if he got his handkerchief out to rub at a running nose. Tucking the cloth away discreetly, he straightened up and prepared to board the jolly boat.

As he sat in the boat, looking up at the _Papillon_ with a mixture of excitement and dread, the itch in his nose, which had been relatively dormant for the past hour, sprang to life, causing Horatio to turn away and rub at it furiously. If he ruined the entire operation now, he would surely cause the destruction of several of the boats, the deaths of a quarter of the _Indy’s_ crew, and bring dishonor down on his own head. All because of one bloody cold. He couldn’t let that happen; the humiliation would be too much to bear.

He was suddenly distracted by a commotion next to him, and realized to his horror that Archie was having one of his fits. As other boats hissed at them to be quiet, Horatio, murmuring a soft apology to his friend, unshipped the tiller and knocked Archie out. Swallowing guiltily, he replaced the block of wood and resumed gazing up at the French ship, his former troubles temporarily forgotten.

Other than that unpleasant moment, the raid started off perfectly. Even Horatio’s inadvertent disturbance (merely knocking over a bucket, to his great relief) didn’t keep them from taking the _Papillon’s_ deck. With a deep breath and a promise not to look down, Horatio sprang for the ratlines and started climbing up to free the sails. Oddly enough, keeping up a mantra of _Don’t think about it_ actually seemed to help, and he made it to the sails without incident. But when he was confronted by the prospect of walking across an extremely thin piece of wood with no footholds, what little confidence he had utterly vanished. Topping it off, that bloody itch came back full force (_of course it did_, the pessimistic part of his brain informed him, _the world likes to conspire against you, don’t you know_). Knowing there was nothing for it but to make a dash for it, Horatio bolted, trying to shut his mind off and keep himself from being talked out of it.

By some miracle, he reached the end safely and crouched down, grabbing the mast to steady himself. His division followed him with much more sure-footedness, and they made it with only one loss. Focusing on the matter at hand, he pulled out his knife and started cutting at the ropes in order to free the sails. In minutes, the job was done.

“Well done, men!” Horatio called, delighted. Glancing downwards to see how the battle was progressing, he was horrified to see the jolly boat drifting away, Archie’s unconscious body still inside. Horatio gasped. “Archie?”

Distracted as he was, his body finally decided that enough was enough, and before he could make a move to stop it, he knew that he couldn’t keep that itch at bay any longer. Clenching his teeth to minimize any noise and tensing up his body to prevent much movement, Horatio let it happen. “_Heh-knnkt!_” Despite his precautions, he felt his head dip a little, but since that was the worst of it, he let it go.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Simpson, down on the deck, pointing a gun at him.

***

“You’re a lucky man, sir,” Finch said respectfully, peering at the wound, “A little lower and we’d have lost you for sure.”

Horatio nodded, wincing a little as he touched the wound (it was pouring blood, but it seemed that the bullet had only grazed his temple). Someone dabbed at it with a wet cloth, which Horatio allowed as he tried to get his thoughts in order. His memories of the event were a little hazy, but he could remember looking down and seeing Archie drifting away, and then he had…

“Finch?” Horatio said, “How close was the bullet to doing some real damage?”

Finch tapped his own forehead. “Your wound is here, sir,” he said, pointing to the temple, “and it would have killed you if it had been here,” he touched his other finger to a spot just a few inches down, “If your head hadn’t been so low, you’d be gone.”

Horatio shivered; apparently after he’d been shot, he’d landed in the cold Atlantic water and been kept in it for at least ten minutes as Finch had dragged his unconscious body back to the _Papillon_. This would do nothing to help his cold, that was certain. Although he knew he now had the perfect excuse to reveal his symptoms, he was still loathe to admit it. His men needed to see him strong, more than ever now that they had to bring the_ Papillon_ back to the _Indefatigable_. When it was all over, when he got back to his cabin, _then_ he could give his cold free rein.

Pushing aside the hand with the cloth, he stood up. “Thank you for saving my life, Finch. I am in your debt.

“T’was nothing, sir,” Finch said, although he broke into a wide smile as he said it, “Just didn’t want to see such a promising man lost to Davy Jones.” Horatio still clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder as he went to seek out Mr. Eccleston; he now remembered _exactly_ how it was that he’d come to fall in the sea, and he needed to have something done about it.

***

Despite how miserably cold he felt in his wet clothes, how badly his throat ached after all the shouting, and how much his nose was torturing him, Horatio refused to give himself a rest once he came back to the _Indefatigable_. Simpson had been called out on his actions, and Pellew had lifted Horatio’s dueling ban and allowed him to settle this matter. Eager to get it over with (and possibly ridding the world of Simpson once and for all) Horatio decided to have the duel the very next morning.

Thus the early morning sun found him and Simpson ten paces apart on a rocky beach. Taking a deep breath, Horatio waited for the signal to raise his gun. That was quite possibly the worst thing he could do, because his nose suddenly twitched violently and he realized that he had triggered a sneeze. The referee was already counting down, and there was nothing for it; Horatio raised his gun on “one” and dipped his head down to his left shoulder to muffle the sneeze. “_Ittsk!_”

Pain shot through his right shoulder, and he collapsed on the ground involuntarily. Opening his eyes dazedly, he realized that Simpson had fired while he had been distracted. Just his luck, but at least he hadn’t been killed for his lapse in judgment. Then he thought for a moment. No, he hadn’t heard the count of three, and he was sure he would have heard it despite the sneeze. That bastard! He had shot early!

He heard Simpson’s voice above him. “Is he dead? Did I kill him?”

Horatio found the strength to stand up. “No you did not!” he snarled, displaying his wounded shoulder.

After that, things got a little muddled.

***

“Captain?” Horatio said, touching his hat respectfully.

Pellew turned to him, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Ah, Mr. Hornblower! Your shoulder’s been stitched up, I presume?”

“Yes, Captain,” Horatio said, “I…I just wanted to thank you for…”

Pellew waved a hand. “It was nothing. I didn’t want to see the life of such a promising young officer cut short.”

Horatio felt an odd sense of déjà vu at that. “Nevertheless, I am grateful.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hornblower.” Pellew smiled a little wider. The two of them stood in silence for a minute, Horatio reveling in his captain’s praise. Then Pellew spoke again.

“I must say, Mr. Hornblower, it was a lucky thing that you turned your head at just the moment that Mr. Simpson fired. He would still have hit your shoulder, but there was a chance he would have clipped your face as well. What made you do such a thing?”

Horatio felt himself blushing. “I…well…”

Pellew shook his head, a spark in his eye. “Never mind, lad. Just take yourself off to bed. After all you’ve been through for the good of the service, I think we can give you a few days of rest.”

“Thank you, sir,” Horatio said, still blushing. Touching his hat, he returned to his cabin. Once inside, he pulled out his handkerchief and allowed himself to sneeze relatively openly for the first time. Sniffling wetly, he prepared for bed. Perhaps he hadn’t been as discreet as he’d thought, but at least no one thought the worst of him for it. Perhaps Fortune was looking out for him, after all.


End file.
